Museum Studies
by scribblescribblescribble
Summary: Pre-Arkham City. The Penguin has a grown-up daughter. Together with several choice members of the Rogues' Gallery, they set up a plan to stop Arkham City from ever opening.
1. Strange Days

Disclaimer: I do not own any DC comics characters and am not getting paid for this. Since Scarecrow's face is never show in the games, please visualize Cillian Murphy as Jonathan Crane.

Subject: Adele Chester. Tape 1.

AC: Professor Strange, let me begin by thanking you for taking the time to meet with me today.

Strange: Miss Chester, I would prefer to reserve the social niceties until after I have determined whether or not you are wasting my time.

AC:…very well. I would like to request a change in the proposed districting of the Arkham City facility. Specifically, the Bowery. The Cyrus T. Pinkney Institute of Natural History is a historic structure of great architectural significance, not to mention its importance as an educational resource for the community.

Strange: (snorts) An educational resource? The exhibits, such as they are, are nearly a hundred years old and the place reeks of naphtha and formaldehyde. The scientific information which accompanies the displays has not been updated since the 1970s. I believe there were even references to punch-cards as the cutting edge of modern computer technology.

AC: Then you haven't visited it in the last three years. Most of the curators and conservators who conveyed with the place have retired, and many of the static displays have been replaced with aquariums and vivariums. The accompanying texts to more than half the exhibits have been rewritten to reflect the most recent discoveries. In January, the Dinosaur hall is scheduled to be shut down for two years while it's renovated and modernized.

Strange: I begin to detect less-than-altruistic motives behind your visit here today. You work there, do you not? Naturally you do not want to join the ranks of the unemployed, but there is a greater good to be considered here than the desires of one individual.

AC: It's more than that. Oswald Cobblepot is my father.

Strange:…Really?

AC :Yes. And _yes_, I _do_ take after my mother more in terms of looks, but not as much as you might think. When my mother was my age, she was _very_ beautiful. With makeup, without it, in any clothes, in any lighting. I get by with good tailoring, capped teeth and the right lipstick.

Strange: Yet you do not use his full name. Adele Chester—Chester from Chesterfield, his middle name, and Adele—were you named after the Adélie _penguin_?

AC: I was born out of wedlock; I believe the name was a compromise. I have few illusions about my parents or their relationship. It was very brief. He had money and power, she, youth and beauty. The oldest story in the world. I would rather talk about the museum—.

Strange: We can come back to that. Cobblepot's daughter, eh? Who is your mother?

AC: My mother made it known to me that I can publicly identify myself as either her daughter or as his. As he was actually the better parent, I chose him, but as I respect my mother's wishes, I must decline to name her.

Strange: _He_ was the better parent? In what way?

AC: I am not actually your patient, Confessor Strange.

Strange: It's _Professor_ Strange.

AC: I know what I said. Professor originally was a religious title, back when the Church was the only place anyone could get an education. 'One who professes the faith', I believe it meant. 'Confessor' is a more apt term for your role in society. You hear confessions, only instead of prescribing 'Hail Marys' and 'Our Fathers' you dispense lithium and Prozac.

Strange: I concede the comparison. Yet it is you who are the supplicant here, not I. You have piqued my interest in your family. If you expect me to give your redistricting request any serious consideration, it falls to you to be more forthcoming.

AC: Then I'm a poor little rich girl, Professor. My mother had custody of me. My father never contested that or balked at making child support payments, and the payments were substantial. Mother was never abusive or neglectful, but it was Alma, our housekeeper, who mostly brought me up. Her-my mother's main contribution was to continually send the message that a woman's worth is based on her looks and that I didn't measure up.

It might have been by long distance, but my father took more of an interest in me. He was very proud that I was reading on a fourth grade level when I started kindergarten, and he really listened when I had trouble with classmates over the years. For example, in middle school, when I told him I wanted to smash another girl's face in, he didn't try to tell me it was wrong or bad or that I didn't really mean it. He asked what she'd done and then advised me to tuck a roll of coins in my fist when I went to punch her, because it would make for greater impact. It was tremendously validating to have an adult tell me it was okay to be that angry and have violent thoughts.

Strange: And what happened when you 'smashed her face in'?

AC: Oh, I never actually _did_ it. It would have been wrong. Hah, I barely remember why I wanted to hit her. I didn't get invited to her skating party. Kid stuff.

Strange: Do you think your father would have been as forgiving?

AC: No. I said I have very few illusions about my parents.

Strange: Are you very…_fond_ of your father?

AC:…(laugh) I just won a bet with myself. Would you make a creepy Freudian insinuation about my relationship with my father or not? And you did. Your next comment is going to be that you did no such thing, that I was the one who brought it up. No, no Electra complexes here. Isn't that sort of thing determined on imprinting anyhow? If it is, then I would have locked on to one of Mother's boyfriends. I didn't meet my father in person until I was seventeen and deciding where to apply to college. Long story short, I chose Gotham University, took business admin and museum studies, graduated with a dual master's, full honors, and now I work for my father.

Strange: So it is not so much his museum as yours, jointly. Well, no doubt with the compensation he will receive from the city, he will be able to buy you another one somewhere else.

AC: _Finally_ we get back on topic. That's the problem. It doesn't matter how much the city offers. Even if they offer another plot with an equivalent building, he won't take it. He is not as young as he was, but he's just as strong-willed, if not more so. As an example, he had this, this_ plan_, like something out of a mid-Victorian novel, to ruin Bruce Wayne financially and then offer to restore the Wayne fortune if Mr. Wayne married me. It took me _two years_ to convince my father it was a bad idea—the marriage part. Father's still out to ruin him. Anyhow, I don't have that kind of lead time here.

Strange: What do you imagine will happen if he does not relocate?

AC: Nothing good. He won't budge, the city will try to evict him, and then…people will get hurt. I have few illusions about who he is, what he's done. What he's capable of. His business is legitimate, these days. I work very hard to make sure that it is so and that it remains so.

Strange: Because you love your father. Does he know about this little mission of yours?

AC: Do you mean this visit to you today or my crusade to keep him reformed?

Strange: Either. Both.

AC: I told him I was going to ask you nicely to spare the museum and the Lounge, and he thinks the latter is rather sweet, like my efforts to get him to stop smoking and eat healthy.

Strange: What if it were you who was making the decision?

AC: I would let the city buy us out—for proper and just compensation, including improvements made to the property, estimated loss of revenue related to the move projected over the next five years, the cost of moving all the existing displays, insurance against any damages-for example, our Diplodocus skeleton cost nine hundred thousand dollars- and an equivalent building on an equivalent site. After all, it's not just the museum, it's the Iceberg Lounge as well, and the Lounge is extremely profitable. The city might well decide it was simpler and more economical to redraw one small line on the map—as I'm requesting now. That's my mother in me, not my father. Sell, but don't sell cheap.

Strange: So you are not quite the misguided optimist you seem.

AC: Oh, I'm downy enough—if you know British slang. Anyhow, it's not my decision to make. The Arkham City Project is likely to be short-lived anyhow, once Batman gets involved- -.

Strange: _**Why do you say that?**_

AC: Because when you drop Mentos into a bottle of soda and screw on the lid, it's foolish **_not_** to expect an explosion. This is _Gotham City_. Batman is everywhere and beating up criminals seems to be what makes him happy. Arkham City'll be like Christmas morning for him.

Strange: Ah. Is that your personal opinion of the Batman, or your father's?

AC: I'm not about to repeat my father's opinion. I was brought up not to use that sort of language. My opinion is that dressing up like a bat in order to go out and fight crime is fundamentally the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard of.

Strange: You don't find Batman attractive? Most women do.

AC: No, actually I don't. He's too...perfect. He's muscled like a god, the part of his face that shows is enough to prove that's he's handsome as a movie star, and he's a flawless athlete. People end up with people who are approximately as attractive as they are. Trying to live up to Batman's standard would be exhausting and demoralizing. If I wanted to grow up to be my mother, I would have stayed in Cali-I would not have come to Gotham City.

Strange: 'Be your mother'? How so?

AC: Beauty is a gift you don't get to keep, but that doesn't mean she isn't trying to. Face lifts. Personal trainers. Breast implants, rhinoplasty, Botox, butt lifts, goat placenta treatments... When I go home sometimes I just want to take off my make-up, put on comfy pajamas, and eat a little ice cream out of the carton. With Batman that would be impossible. Can you imagine him sitting around in jeans, watching a movie and drinking a beer? It's not possible. Besides, one woman's _dark and brooding_ is another's _grim and joyless_. He simply doesn't appeal to me.

Now I'm going to share with you something I've never told anyone before, Professor Strange. My first four years in Gotham were spent incognito. It wasn't until I turned twenty-one that Dad came out and introduced me as his daughter. He threw a big birthday party for me in the Lounge, and at midnight he had me stand up with him, and he said 'I have a big announcement to make. Tonight this becomes a family business...'

That's public knowledge, of course. Gothamite Magazine ran pictures. No, what I have to tell you about happened in my freshman year. I took Psych one semester, and the TA was Jonathan Crane.

Strange: The same Jonathan Crane who went on to become the Scarecrow, I take it, for otherwise this anecdote seems pointless.

AC: Yes, that same one. He was on the verge of getting his doctorate. I didn't need any tutoring, but we'd at least met and the next semester, I bumped into him in the museum. I was starting up the Gift Shop then-my second major project for the Pinkney. The first was the website. He was there to do visual comparisons on skull capacity versus spinal cord length, as I recall. We said 'Hi,' and got to talking. The next week, he came by again, and it became a regular thing. We weren't dating or anything like it, just hanging out, always in public places. We didn't even exchange e-mails or phone numbers.

One day I noticed the nose-piece on one side of his glasses had been replaced by a lump of poster adhesive, that blue stuff that's like putty. I said 'Come on, Jonathan. Your glasses are broken and they're all wrong for your face anyway. I'm buying you a new pair.' So I dragged him out of the museum and down to the ready-in-an-hour opticians, helped him pick out new frames, and then took him for coffee while the glasses were being made.

Yes, I knew I was being terribly bossy, but he seemed all right with it. Yet the next week he didn't turn up at all. The week after, he came by-wearing the glasses I bought him, by the way-to inform me 'As you know, Miss Chester, I will be matriculating soon, and as I plan to pursue a career in academia, I am afraid I cannot afford even the slightest appearance of wrong doing. You are nearly ten years my junior, and so, as pleasant as these meetings have been, I'm afraid, that for the sake of my future, they must stop.'

Since then-especially in light of what became of him afterward-I have often wondered what I should have said. Something like 'Anybody who sees impropriety in our meeting like this is a prize chowderhead, and you can send them to me so I can tell them so. Sit down and tell me if you think this is too intellectual to go in a general audience museum guide.'

Instead I blurted out, 'But we're not dating!'

'Correct. And no one must ever think that.' he replied.

'I thought we were friends.'

'A p-pretty college student and a nearly thirty year old instructor cannot be friends in this day and age. Goodbye, Miss Chester.' He really did stammer when he said that.

Honestly, between the part of my brain that was going 'He thinks I'm pretty?' and the part which was outraged, I was left speechless. I didn't even say goodbye when he left. I've wondered-if I had not accepted his rejection, if I had insisted on staying friends -could I have influenced his life for the better? So you see, Professor Strange, I am determined not to lose my father as well, and given his past- I ask this: Please redraw the border of Arkham City to exclude the museum and the Iceberg Lounge.

Strange: Interesting. You mentioned there was a housekeeper who essentially raised you-.

AC: Yes, Alma. Alma Hernandez.

Strange: Would you say she was a good person, a moral person?

AC: Yes.

Strange: And she clearly imparted her values to you.

AC: I suppose she did.

Strange: Given your mother as you describe her, and your father as I know him to be, I would say you represent the triumph of nurture over nature. I shall take your request under consideration. Good day.

AC: Goodbye, and thank you.

Strange: It is far too soon for you to thank me.

Notes: Internet searches confirm Miss Chester's story, to a point. Given her age, it should not be difficult to guess the identity of her mother, given how publicly Cobblepot flaunted his affairs. It will be interesting to see how quickly and thoroughly the world chews her up and spits her out once her father's protection is gone-as it will be, when he is safely immured in Arkham City.


	2. Happy Feet

"Sir, 'Happy Feet' is safe back and headin' to da Iceberg," the driver phoned in.

"Roight," Oswald Cobblepot rasped in the rough Cockney accent that was second nature to him now, switching his cigar to the other side of his mouth. Some unknown person among his gang had immediately dubbed Adele with the code name 'Happy Feet' once he introduced her as his daughter, and unlike most codes, it had stuck. After about six months, he bothered to ask one of the lads why, and learned there was a kiddie movie by that name about a baby penguin, so, seeing as she was his daughter… He was amused rather than offended.

He wanted people to keep her in mind. She was one of the distinctions between him and the nutters like the clown and Two-Face, or flash-in-the-pans, like the Riddler, caught up on their gimmicks and obsessed with the Bat. The goal, his goal, was to get all of the money in the world and hang on to it or die trying. Anybody who let obsessions get in the way wasn't _serious_. "Any trouble getting out?"

"None. Smooth as you could want it. Strange kept her stewin' in the waiting room for da longest time afore he let her in, dat was all."

"Well done," he commented. Rumor had it people had been to visit Strange and wound up going in the doctor's private looney bin instead of going home. "There'll be something extra in your envelope this week."

"Thanks, boss—."

Cobblepot cut off the connection, stabbed at a button which brought up the security camera feed from the lobby, and watched as the doorman let Adele in with a half-bow. She looked quite the Mod today, with oversized round dark glasses in white frames and white platform boots. Grey turtleneck, knee length black skirt, white woolen coat—_his_ colors, the gang colors, allegiance asserted before an outsider, and the whole of it said 'Respect me,' not 'Aren't I sexy?'. Strange might have missed the significance of those details, but _he_ didn't.

From her expression he gathered that Strange had not agreed to change the map. But then, that wasn't the point of going, was it? She passed out of the camera's range, and shortly thereafter, walking in his office door.

"Hello, Dad," she smiled sunnily, brushing his cheek with a chaste and daughterly kiss. "Where shall I begin?" Her gaze lit on the dozen liquor bottles lined up on his desk and the waiting tray of glasses. "Big conference after this?"

"No, a little taste test I want your help with. I believe someone is playing 'Silly Buggers', refilling top-shelf bottles with the cheap stuff and pocketing the difference, and I'm not having any of that. If somebody pays twenty-five dollars for a cocktail in _my_ joint, they're going to get what they paid for."

"If you need me to, of course I will," she replied, "but I won't be that good at judging hard liquors. Not enough experience. If it were champagne, though—."

"You don't smoke, you've a decent palate, and I _know_ it wasn't your hand in the cookie jar," he told her, reaching for the nearest bottle. "Six of these are sealed, straight off the vendor's shelf. Six are from behind the bar. All you have to do is try two at a time and tell whether they're the same or different."

"I'll do my best, but don't give me more than a teaspoonful of each, please."

He poured her two modest splashes of the first pair, and himself two larger splashes. "Scotch," he said. "A hundred dollars a shot, this costs."

She sipped gingerly at the first glass. "I taste…smoke? Or is that my taste buds burning?"

"Try the other," he advised.

"All right," she said, tasting the other. Oswald Cobblepot regarded her face as she thought about the spirit she was tasting. They had the same coloring, dark hair and pale skin. Both of them had rather heavy eyebrows, although she plucked hers into a more graceful shape and her eyes were larger and a clear cool grey, not blue. Her nose was…nothing like his, and the mouth beneath it was soft and child-like.

Ten years had gone by since Adele had become more than a disembodied voice and a face known only from pictures. Ten years, and he still did not understand her fully. He'd let her do what she wanted around the museum while she went to college because the Pinkney was more a tax dodge than anything else, a way to launder revenue.

The website was the start of it, which was simple enough. Everyplace had a website, these days, and it would look odd if the Pinkney didn't have one. Then she said there ought to be a proper museum shop and not just a rack of yellowing postcards by the ticket counters, so he let her have a room and thirty-five thousand to play with, chicken feed as far as he was concerned.

Six or seven months later he was going over the accounts, and there was the store revenue. It was making money. He went in to have a look around, and it _was_ a proper shop, with t-shirts, books, toy animals, a jewelry counter, even a shelf of sweets, chocolate bars with pictures of endangered species on the wrappers and—incredible as it was, lollipops of amber-colored candy with _bugs_, real live—real _**dead**_ bugs in them. Crickets, as it turned out. She had an instinct for what people would buy, and how to sell it. A pencil with the museum name on it cost nine cents wholesale, she explained, beaming at him, (and who had ever beamed at _him_ with joy?) and sold for ninety-five cents, five cents sales tax not included, and pencils were only the start. Even kiddies usually had a dollar in their pockets, and those dollars added up, didn't they just.

Now there was a second museum store and another one in the Iceberg Lounge with its own unique line of merchandise, plus a counter of high-end things that someone who'd just hit it big at the slots or the tables might like to buy in celebration. Luxury wrist-watches, diamond pendants, and all of it the genuine article, so even when gamblers won, the casino didn't lose and the people went away happy.

Five or six million more a year was coming in, thanks to her innovations, and that _wasn't_ chicken feed. All of it legit, too.

Adele was honest, she worked twice as hard as anybody else, and loved nothing more than to take on new things. _**Why**_ was she still there? With her marks, she could have gotten a job anywhere after she got her degree, somewhere more respectable. She could go now—any museum, any employer would be lucky to get her. Was she hanging on in the hopes of scooping the pot when he died, being his only known living relative?

She swallowed the drink, and looked at him. "This one has a horrible burning taste too, but is it…peaty? Is that the right word? And with a hint of vanilla. They're not the same."

"No, they aren't," he glowered at the bottles. "I'm having a _word_ with somebody over this, I don't know who yet. So. Strange. First impressions?"

"Right! Professor Hugo's a stone-cold sociopath. He finds normal, sane people boring, but then he meets very few of them because he keeps digging away at a person's brains until he finds _something_ pathological and enlarges on it. A sadist, but too fastidious for bodily contact. Scalpels, syringes and rubber gloves are more his thing. Also, that chin-strap beard of his is even more horrific in person. He may think it gives him gravitas, but I would call it mesmerizingly awful.

"Seriously, though. Arkham City itself is not his ultimate goal—although he'll have his fun with it. What this really is about is Batman. He's got it in for Batman. Forgive me for being crude in what I am about to say, because I don't know how to put it otherwise. Strange's pretty much got a hard-on for Batman, but he can't admit that, even to himself, so he's going to take him down. He means to make you a tool in breaking Batman, Dad. He wants you in there. I'd even say he _needs_ you in there, because you're the only one hard enough, smart enough, _organized_ enough to turn those inmates into an army. At least, that's what I got out of the encounter, but you can judge for yourself."

Adele reached for her tote bag. "They held my cell phone and my pepper spray while I was in there, but they let me keep my e-reader and my umbrella. I was glad of that. It made me feel a lot safer with him." The umbrella, a smaller folding model intended to fit in a woman's bag, had a very strong taser built into it. A baby version of his own umbrella for a baby penguin.

"And _this _particular e-reader has a voice recorder built in."

She turned on the device, plugged a small speaker into it, and started the clip. "Professor Strange—," her voice began. They listened through the entire interview in silence.

"That wanker!" the Penguin exploded. "He means to make me a tool! Me! Use _**me**_ till I break and throw me away? I don't bloody _**think**_ so."

"Perhaps this is a good time to compare more of that liquor," Adele said. "Dad, I want in on this. I know I've never asked to get involved in this sort of thing, and I don't know how good I'll be at it, but Strange _offends_ me. I want to take him _**down**_."

* * *

TBC…. And thank you so much to Bat-teen28 for my first review, and to those who added it to their faves and watch lists.


	3. Plotting Mischief

"Hold on now," Oswald Cobblepot looked sharply at Adele, "Just what do you see yourself doing? You may think you're prepared, but for all that you've been about the place these ten years, you've only been hanging about the edges of what _really_ goes on."

"The way I see it, Dad," she replied, her voice low and level. "this is my home as much as yours, more than anywhere else has been my whole life, and I don't want to give it up anymore than you do. If I'm not prepared to fight for it, then I should just whimper off and apply for a job at the Smithsonian or something. Besides, I figure this for being at least a two pronged attack, and my part will be the public one."

He chuckled and reached for a gin bottle full of what should have been Bombay Sapphire and was probably not. "Talk. Do your best to sell me on it, but be warned, I'm not going to go easy on you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way…First thing I'd do is get on the phone with the Historical Society, start raising a stink. Next, Gothamite Magazine. You've been buying advertising space from them for years—full color full page ads, too. I'm sure I could interest them in a heartwarming true story of how the museum brought a ruptured family together and what it means to them, how they found common ground in a shared interest and that it has only grown stronger and deeper."

"What family is that?" he furrowed his brow.

"You and me, of course. An exclusive interview, with pictures of us strolling wistfully through the halls, sharing amusing anecdotes and talking about our vision for the future of the place, a vision that will never be realized—."

The Penguin tossed back the tot of gin he had just poured. "Bloody hell. Adele—."

"I'll do most of the talking," she promised, raising her hands in a deflecting gesture.

"I have a _reputation _to uphold in this town. Paint me as some lovable soft old gent, and that reputation will crumble. You might as well slit my throat and be done with it. No."

"You're a vicious bastard who'll have a man crippled for looking at you funny, and no mistake." she said, her face serious and her voice a little sad. "Believe me, Dad, I_ never_ forget that. But you're more than that. You're a complicated man. You're a bon vivant who likes to see people enjoying themselves, you're a collector with discernment and taste, and you're also quite a decent father. This is like the penguin and sea lion shows and the 'Families Welcome' atmosphere in the main restaurant, both of which were going long before I got here."

"You haven't sold me yet."

"But you're still listening and you haven't thrown anything against the wall either," she held up a finger. "In that interview, you'll also point out that the museum and lounge employ hundreds of people, who'll lose their jobs, and the displays include living creatures, some of which are endangered species and very delicate. How do you move a full-grown Great White Shark like Tiny without killing him, and where do you move him to? I wonder if I can get an orphaned baby walrus somewhere, Tiny isn't cute enough to tug at the heartstrings… But of course you support the idea of Arkham City and the work Mayor Sharp and Professor Strange are doing to make the city safer, it's just that you don't see how to relocate the museum and its contents in the time they're giving you to do it. Or where you'd relocate to. Not just any big building will do."

"If you pile the shite up too high, it topples over on you," the Penguin commented. "Still, if you do the heartwarming and I talk about the numbers—what else've you got?"

"Amnesty International. Get them looking into whether the proposed plans entail any human rights violations. And then…Um. Pour yourself another, Dad, and remember this is the public face of things. There is no more public, more handsome or more appealing face than Bruce Wayne, and he does so love to get involved with this sort of thing. He'll smile, he'll make a statement, write a check, get his picture in the paper, and go home."

Her father's response was lengthy, sacrilegious, scatological, and obscene, not to mention physically impossible. The gist of it was 'I refuse to take part in anything where I wind up having to be grateful to Bruce Wayne!'

"Well, although my negative feelings about him are nowhere near as strong as yours, I'd rather not involve him either. He hits on women like he's doing them a favor. I feel the same way around him that I do around Batman—hopelessly plain, short, and flat-chested." She pursed up her mouth in a sad moue.

While to his paternal eye, Adele did not need the make-up she insisted on wearing, the truth was that she needed platform shoes to achieve average height and nature had not been overly generous to her in the way of breasts. "I always have this urge to black his eye or break his nose just make him less pretty and get me back some of my own self-esteem." She finished.

"You, me, and half of the rest of Gotham—and hey, now. How is it you never told me about Scarecrow dropping you like that?" He looked expectantly at Adele.

"He wasn't the Scarecrow back then, he was just the gawky young teaching assistant in a class I took. I did like him a little. Gawky young intellectuals usually age very well, and he could have matured into something quite distinguished. Besides, I did tell you something about it. I just never followed up when Jon became famous."

"I don't remember it."

Adele smiled. "There was one day when I was all red-eyed and teary, and you took one look and asked, 'All right, who am I having kneecapped, and is it one knee or both?' I told you it wasn't that serious, and explained. You laughed and said if he was scared off that easily, he wasn't worth it."

"Well, he wasn't." Oswald Cobblepot grumbled. "Too bad you stopped me having him kneecapped, because he turned out a right wanker. Gassing up the Narrows, people freaking and screaming—it's all bad for business. Now, what's the second prong of this plan of yours?"

"That's where the gloves come off. It'll be illegal, libelous, dangerous, and underhanded." She picked up one of her glasses of gin and swirled the droplet around the sides of the glass.

"I like it already," he replied. "Take this bit of fatherly advice, though: Outsource the dangerous bits to someone better equipped to deal with it."

"I was already thinking that we'd need some specialists for this…" She stood up from her chair by the side of his desk in order to pace. "After what the Joker did at the Asylum, it makes sense that the next mayor would run and win with a strong anti-crime platform. It does _not_ make sense that the next mayor should be the Warden who failed to prevent or even alleviate the outbreak, when so many of his staff were involved in carrying it out. In no possible universe should Quincy Sharp have become Mayor. He ought to have slunk off in disgrace to end his days in alcoholic obscurity. Instead he won. How?"

"Money," her father stated.

"Yes. Gobs of money. Wads of it. Rivers of it. He bought billboards, radio spots, internet ads, prime-time commercials on all the major networks during the most popular shows. Not just in the last few weeks of the campaign, either, but for months leading up to it. There was plenty of variety in the ads, too. Every week, a new one went into rotation. Where did the money come from? He hasn't got that kind of money. Campaign contributions? Gotham City doesn't require transparency."

"For good reason, too," Cobblepot sat back in his chair, watching her face. He was enjoying this. "The amounts I've contributed to politicians over the years could buy the Institute twice over. They're happy enough to take my cash as long as they needn't admit it."

"I'm glad we agree," she nodded. "His donors are anonymous but I bet they aren't untraceable. Then there's the billions it'll take to build Arkham City and more billions to keep it running. Mayor Sharp promised it would cost the taxpayers no more than the current prison system. That smells worse than the dumpster behind a fishmonger's during a garbage strike in July. It follows that the difference must be made up somewhere. Logic points toward the same source as his campaign funds. We have also been saddled with Strange as the sole authority in charge of Arkham City."

"This isn't something you'd know about, but a few years ago, Strange was noising about that he knew who Batman was. He was going to auction off that choice tid-bit to the highest bidder. I had an invite. So did Two-Face, the clown, Freeze—all the major players who weren't in Blackgate or Arkham then," the Penguin reminisced.

"Really? What happened? Obviously he didn't go through with it."

"He did a runner. Vanished. Scarpered. He was missing for ages. Then he turns up not too long ago, thinner, heavier muscled. Like he'd been bodybuilding while in the clink, only he hadn't been in any prison. Out of the country, they say," he replied.

"Yet he didn't bring up the auction idea again," Adele frowned in thought. "That's suggestive. Either he was honestly wrong and realized his mistake, or he was lying and realized that selling bogus intelligence was likely to get him killed and spread out in pieces all over Gotham, or…he was right, but he thought better of it for some reason. I mean, once a secret is told, it's like a girl being a little bit pregnant. Word gets around."

"It does."

"Maybe he blackmailed Batman—no, what am I saying? Batman wouldn't pay blackmail. He must be rich, though, to afford all of his gadgets and gear. Anyhow, the kind of money Sharp is throwing around leaves a trail. I want a hacker, the best hacker there is, to sniff around until they find out where it came from and who it came from. " Adele narrowed her eyes. "And steal as much of it as possible while they're at it, of course. Waste not, want not."

"Don't forget to siphon off a little for your old dad's retirement fund," Oswald smiled at her.

"Never," she promised. "So—find the money, get the money. But I want more than that. I want everything on Strange's computers. I want to know what he's got planned, what websites he visits, what books he buys.

"While that's going on, it's also time to stir up trouble. Start rumors. Cultivate panic. Spread nasty gossip. Flood the internet with misinformation. Where does the money for the prison come from, if not taxes? Domestic terrorists? Better still, _foreign_ ones with names you can't pronounce. What will they be doing _inside_ the prison? Testing bioweapons? Infecting inmates with diseases and then trying to cure them? What if something gets transmitted to the rest of Gotham? Work the city up into a frenzy of fear, in other words. I don't know who to tap for the hacking, but for the fear campaign I'd like to call on Jonathan. He should know how to do it if anyone does—but he'll have to leave the fear gas at home. I'd tell him it was a challenge to see what he can do without relying on psychotropic drugs."

"Roiiiight," her father drew out the word. "This wouldn't be because you'd like to see him again?"

"No. I have not been impressed by his recent career or accomplishments, and I don't think I could get involved with someone I can't respect. Nor do I fancy taking him on as a fixer-upper project."

That made the Penguin laugh. "Do you know where he is right now?"

"No idea," His daughter shrugged.

"Nor do I, but I can put the word out. As far as your hacker goes, back when the Riddler was still Eddie Nashton, before he crossed paths with Batman, there wasn't a better one. Too good, maybe. He doesn't have to earn a living ever again, so now he's gone all obsessed and spends his time making these trophy things and working out how to stump the Bat. The police nabbed him the night Arkham went down, but he escaped in all the ruckus. I know where he's gone to ground, though."

"Splendid!"

"It's you who'll have to keep him on task, though. And Scarecrow as well." He watched her carefully.

"Me?"

"Yes. This is your plan, and you're going to see it through or see it fail. I'll do the magazine article, and you can call on me for advice, but that's as far as I go." He reached for a fresh cigar, unwrapped it, and nipped the end off.

"But—I'd thought—I don't think I can."

"You mean you don't _know_ if you can. I don't know either. What I do know is, I'm not a young man. I'm not going to be around forever."

"Dad—." Her expression was stricken.

"It's just the truth, my girl. You've got a choice to make. Are you going to step up and take over the business—and I mean _all _of it—or not? Are you going to be tough enough to take on this town and this lot here?" His gesture encompassed the Lounge and his gang of thugs.

"Because you can't rely on their loyalty based just on how they act now, with me to keep them in line. If you wait until I'm gone to try and win their respect, it'll be too late. All right, maybe if you were Sofia Falcone, who's six-six and two hundred some pounds, maybe you could whip them into line then, but you're not. You _could_ pick out some lad who's all muscles and no brains, marry him and set him up as gang leader, and be the power behind the throne, but I'll wager that isn't what you want. It isn't what I'd want for you.

"You've got to grow into it _now_, become a player in your own right. Or apply for that job at the Smithsonian you were talking about, get out of town, start building a life and a name for yourself that doesn't rely on being the 'Baby Penguin.'"

Today she had a short, chic crop, but only a few months before, her hair had been long enough to put up in a chignon. Then one terrible night, one of Two-Face's goons came into the Lounge, right up to his table, and handed him a large envelope full of something soft that rustled. He'd opened it, and it was full of hair—Adele's hair, still smelling of her favorite perfume. Then he'd found a file she left on his computer in case something happened to her, one which began with the words, 'I always knew it would all have to be paid for, and what form the payment would take.' and ended with 'even if it was all make-believe,_you_ _were_ the father my heart always longed for. I love you, Dad.'

It took a few days to sort it all out and get her back safe and sound, during which he'd swallowed a great lump of pride and asked Batman for help, because although the Bat was a great better-than-thou bully and a pain in everybody's arse, he, Oswald Cobblepot, knew that Batman would not say no, and that he would get her back alive. And Batman had, although by that time, Adele had mostly rescued herself. (He was very proud of her.)

After that, father and daughter had sat down and said a lot of things they should probably have said years before, and sorted out matters, which was how they'd gotten to the point they were at now.

"This plan you've worked out strikes me as being a good way to find out what you're made of." he concluded. "It's up to you, though. What do you say?"

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, Bat-Teen 28 and Tevinter of our Discontent. And thank you to those who are reading silently, too. I figure everyone is obsessively playing Arkham Origins right now, am I right? I know I am.

Next chapter, Adele calls on the Riddler!


	4. Before Dawn

The next day:

Someone was knocking on his door.

Nobody ever knocked on his door.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. Nobody he wasn't expecting, such as minions delivering groceries or supply shipments, ever knocked on his door. The Dork Knight wouldn't bother knocking, and while the police would knock, they'd also yell, 'This is the police! Open up!' So who ever this was, it could be nobody he wanted or needed to see. Plus he'd fallen asleep in his computer chair again, which always left him with a sore neck and he hadn't brushed his teeth so his mouth tasted foul. But there was someone at the door, and they weren't going away.

Edward Nigma, otherwise known as Enigma, also AKA The Riddler, originally Edward Nashton, pushed himself out of his chair and staggered through the maze of works in progress to his door.

_Coffee. I need coffee_, he thought as he opened the door. "What do you want?" he demanded peevishly of the person in front of him and then blinked as his eyes delivered important if faulty information to his brain, because standing right there on his doorstep was Audrey Hepburn.

Of course it wasn't actually Audrey Hepburn, because if it was, she would be much, much older, not to mention dead. (The woman in front of him was in her mid-twenties and to all appearances, alive). She didn't even look that much like Audrey Hepburn, but she was definitely the same type.

"Ooh," Her eyes met his, and she dimpled up in an impish smile. "_Look _at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Shall I try?"

He took a step back, his hand flying up involuntarily to shield him should she attack. There were a lot of fierce women on both sides of the law in the hero/villain business, and sooner or later, they all tried to hit him, if only to shut him up. "What? No!"

"I was quoting Irene Adler when she meets Sherlock in 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. I thought Benedict Cumberbatch had the best cheekbones known to humanity, but yours bump his down the list. Oh. You still don't…I'm sorry. Of course someone with an intellect like_ yours_ wouldn't bother with popular culture or watch television shows. I'm talking about a BBC show called Sherlock, which explores the question 'What if Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson lived in contemporary London?' Forget I mentioned it."

"Uh, whoever you are, you have the wrong apartment." he managed, the words fighting their way up through a sleep-fogged mind. Plus, his most basic biological programming performed a fast potential mate assessment (shiny hair plus smooth skin plus .71 hip-waist ratio equals young, healthy and fertile. Prolonged eye contact equals interest. Smiling means _she might like you!_), reached a certain conclusion, and started flooding his brain with neurohormones related to pair-bonding, further complicating his reactions. Not to mention confusing him.

"Not if you're the Riddler, and if you're not I think he's going to be mad at you for stealing his clothes," she pointed to his question-mark print shirt.

He glanced down at himself, seeing the soup stains left behind from slurping down too-hot ramen, realized his stubble was approaching the length of a young beard and that he didn't remember when he last showered. Or slept in a bed. At least his fly was zipped. Meanwhile, she looked as fresh and sharp as an icicle in her neat white coat and slim blue dress. "Uh—then what do you want?"

"I'm here to invite you to the Iceberg Lounge at midnight tonight for a meeting at the owner's table. My name's Adele Chester, by the way. I've been wanting to meet you for the longest time." She dimpled again and her eyes danced as she scanned his face. "I understand that not only do you read books, you don't have to move your lips or drag your finger underneath the lines as you go. What does a vegetarian zombie groan for?"

"_**What?"**_

"It's a riddle. You're always making them up for other people, so I thought you might like it if someone returned the favor. What does a vegetarian zombie groan for?" she repeated.

"I don't know. Because it's hungry?" he asked, for the first time realizing what his targets must go through when they were suddenly blindsided by one of his challenges. He was decidedly off his game.

"Errrrrrt," she imitated a game-show buzzer. "Wrong. Want to try again?"

"Umm….Do you—do you work for the Penguin?" he asked. If she did, she was unexpectedly modest in her dress and underendowed by the standards of Cobblepot's usual female henchmen. Or would that be henchwomen? Henchwenches?

"Yes. I pretty much run the museum these days, among other things."

A vague memory, several years old, unscrolled in his mind, a conversation between petty thugs.

Didja hear what happened at the Iceberg the odder night?/_no, what happened?'_/there's this kid hanging around the museum doin stuff the last few years, see? real quiet, never raises her voice to nobody, answers to Cobblepot alone well it turns out she's his _daughter_ it was her twenty-first birthday, so he threw this big bash and it was free champagne all night/_his daughter? huh, if she looks anything like her old man, I gotta say, poor kid, cause he's sure an ugly little turd!_/nah, she's kinda cute got that wavy look goin, ya know_?/ wavy? what are you talking about?/_you know, like that model Johnny Depp was goin with a while back Kate Moss/_you mean waifish?/_yeah, dat's it/_so she don't look nothing like him?_/she does, kinda. ya gotta see them together to spot the resemblance ya know like that Aerosmith guy Steven Tyler an his daughter Liv Tyler, the one that was in them Ring movies/_the one where you see the video and die in seven days?_/nah, the ones with the hobbits and shit/I never saw them

"Wait—you're his daughter, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," she nodded. "I can say the alphabet backwards. Can you? Zyxwvutsrqponmlkjihgfedcba." She reeled it out swiftly, without a hitch and without the alphabet sing-song.

He waved a hand, "Wait, what? Is that what a vegetarian zombie groans for?"

"No. Most people learn by rote and can't spontaneously reverse the letters. Cognitive inertia. I like your glasses, by the way. They really suit you. Was your girlfriend involved in the selection process, or is your taste naturally that good?"

"Thanks, I think. I don't have a girlfriend," he said. What_ time_ was it? Granted, day and night held little meaning for one driven by genius, but it certainly seemed too damn early. "What does the Penguin want to see me for?"

"I never said he did. I'm here on my own behalf," she gave him that impish smile again. "But Dad will be there. He always is."

"Then what is it about?"

"Right now I think you're a couple of grandes low on coffee and won't process well until you're topped up. I'd rather discuss it tonight. Do you like champagne? I adore it."

"I—it's all right, I guess."

"Then I'll pick out a good one and make sure they chill it properly. Just to clarify matters…you don't have a boyfriend either, do you? You're the married-to-his-work kind, I'm guessing." She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Yes!" What was wrong with his brain?

"That's a pity," she nodded, narrowing her eyes and looking thoughtful.

"You're trying to influence me by flirting with me, aren't you?"

"Ah! You noticed!" The dimples appeared again. "Is it working?"

"No!"

"Drat. I must work on my technique. Not having cleavage puts me at a disadvantage." She glanced down at herself.

"So when I don't show up, what are you going to do?" he challenged her.

"What would I do?" She looked at the ceiling. "I would ask my father's advice on what to do."

The Riddler thought about that for a moment. He and the Penguin had been colleagues, or more accurately, associates for years, although he hadn't done any work for the man lately. Then he looked at Adele, at the coat and dress which were very simple in the way that only very expensive clothing can be, and at her diamond earrings, her accessories, and her bright eyes.

If he were Cobblepot, and he had somehow managed to father a daughter this attractive, charming, and intelligent (although nothing like the brilliant mind he, Edward Nygma himself, possessed) and a man stood her up, what would it occur to him to do? 'Kneecap the bastard,' sprang to mind. He was fond of his kneecaps. They had served him well for nearly thirty-three years.

"I believe you said midnight?" he asked.

"Midnight," she confirmed, and half- turned to go. Then she turned back again. "Grains," she said, dragging the 'a' and 's' out spookily, as in 'Graaaaainsss'. "_That's_ what a vegetarian zombie groans for. Anyhow, I must go. I have a video conference about a baby walrus I can't miss. I'll see you tonight. Good bye."

"Uh—bye. Wait—how did you bypass the security measures?"

"Let's save that for tonight, when the conversation flags," she called behind her.

Left alone, Edward Nigma took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed his hand over his face. "What just happened?" he asked himself. "Zxy—no. Zyxuvw. Ah, hell. Zyxwvust. Damn it! Wait, maybe I can use it in some trap…" His bristled chin bothered him, and if he were going to the Iceberg, he really ought to be clean and dressed appropriately. But before he took care of any of that, he first looked up who Benedict Cumberbatch was, just out of curiosity.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers Bat-Teen28 and Swordstitcher. I have progressed to the GCPD in Origins, after two nights spent trying to defeat Deathstroke. I love Gotham City in this game—I was gliding around the districts I knew from Arkham City geeking out over all the landmarks I recognized!


	5. Death Valley

On the one hand, it was nice to get out in the fresh air once in a while, to contemplate an offer of work that wasn't all about Batman—or probably wasn't, Edward mentally amended. He had no idea what Adele Chester had in mind, but…she'd invited him for business. This wasn't social and it wasn't anything more.

He did not have the best track record when it came to the female of the species. Fifteen years ago, when he was going on eighteen, if an attractive woman invited him anywhere for champagne at midnight, he would have felt like James fucking Bond. And that was after years of public school, and all the girls for whom he'd written entire papers, done ninety percent of the work on joint projects, set up computers…and for what? A breathless 'Thank you, Eddie. You're _such_ a good friend.'

It hadn't been much different in college, except that they also wanted help moving. Oh, he'd had a few girlfriends along the way, nothing permanent. Nobody really special. Then he'd got hired as head of the GCPD's Cyber Crimes department, and shortly thereafter, gone over to the Dark Side as much out of boredom as anything else.

Shortly thereafter, he learned that , wow, there were supervillain _groupies_, but they weren't the sort of girl you exactly wanted to give keys to your secret hideout. For one thing, they liked to overshare on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. He might as well put up a huge green neon question mark over his hideout. So he tried dating women who were already in the business—a tactical mistake, as out-and-out female criminals had no compunction against stealing his share of heist money, falling in love with the Bat and defecting, swiping his ideas and his gadgets, and finally, resorting to violence just to shut him up. Given this dismal life-long losing streak, the last thing he wanted was to get mixed up in the Penguin's daughter's schemes.

Besides, she wasn't his type. He didn't have a type, but if he did, it would be someone like Catwoman, who had a figure and wasn't afraid to show it off. In fact, he was making a series of Riddler trophies in pink and coming up with riddles that, if solved correctly, would lead her to a romantic dinner with him, hopefully the first of many.

Although, for the sake of keeping in good with Cobblepot, (and keeping his kneecaps intact), he was prepared to show up and hear Adele out. Her father was useful; no sense in provoking conflict. Such was his state of mind when he arrived at the Iceberg Lounge, entering via the discreet concealed door which led directly to the other VIP room, the one where the law-abiding never set foot or even dreamed existed. The owner's table was central, of course, and four chairs were arranged around it. Two were already occupied, by the Penguin and his daughter. There was also an ice bucket to the side with a bottle keeping cold in it.

Adele looked like a woman who invited a man to partake of champagne and criminal conspiracy at midnight ought to look, if she possibly can. Wearing a smoky silver dress and red lipstick, she lifted a flute glass to her lips and sipped, smiling at something her father said. Then she caught sight of him, and her smile's wattage jumped. "_Hel-_lo. You clean up rather nicely," she commented.

"Uh, thank you," he said, and to the Penguin he nodded, "Cobblepot."

"Riddler," the older man returned the nod. "Sit down, make yerself at home. There's a fourth coming to our little party, and I've just got to go check if my lads have found him yet." He hoisted himself to his feet and lumbered off.

"Fourth?" he asked Adele as he took his seat.

She nodded. "Scarecrow. Would you care for some champagne, or would you prefer something else? I don't want to impose my tastes on you."

"Champagne is fine, and besides, your wait staff looks to be sweating bullets tonight." He glanced around.

"We're down by two bartenders and a beverage manager," she explained, sliding a glass across the table to him. "One of the bartenders and the manager were running a swindle on both Dad and the customers. _They've_ been terminated. The other failed to notice what was going on, so he was let go with just a black eye." The meaningful eyeflick she gave him with the word 'terminated' said it all.

She went on. "I've become hardened over the last ten years. Once I would have been half-sick over their deaths; now I regard it as if they decided to commit suicide in a very unpleasant way. Who am I to tell anyone how they ought to die? It's not as if my father hasn't been on the scene long enough for everyone to know what will happen if they try scamming him."

"Quite," he said, and changed the subject. "I watched the first episode of that 'Sherlock' show."

"What did you think of it?" She looked very pleased and straightened up in her chair, resting her elbows on the table and folding her hands under her chin.

"It was so laden with errors as to be ridiculous…" He went on to tear 'A Study in Pink' apart in detail. "…not to mention that Scotland Yard calling in an amateur for help is as bad as Commissioner Gordon calling in the Bat." He settled back, confident that his rapier-like wit had punctured her balloon of fandom.

"I agree with you completely," she nodded, smiling brightly at him. "Nobody even wonders how those people got to all the out-of-the-way places where they supposedly went to commit suicide. But there was one question you failed to ask."

"Which is?"

"Were you entertained? Did it capture the essence of Holmes and Watson in the modern world?"

"I—well, yes. It did. It was fun spotting all the allusions and references to the original stories," he admitted. "I loved them when I was a kid. The super-smart guy being the hero, I guess."

"Right! Be he never so humble, there's no police like Holmes." Those dimples of hers were unfair, he decided. "That show had me from the line 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Don't bother with 'The Adventure of the Blind Banker', it's terrible—their Chinatown episode. I'm convinced it's written into the code of series television that every cop, forensics or crime show has to have an episode set in Chinatown, or the equivalent—Koreatown or Little Tokyo, whatever nationality they choose—where they objectify all the worse clichés about Asian people. There can be no other explanation. In fact, skip 'The Hounds of Baskerville', too—."

"I'm not smitten with you. You can flirt all you want, and it won't change anything. You're not my type," he interrupted her. Something in his brain seemed to be shorted out that day, starting from when she knocked on his door. Ordinarily he would have come up with half a dozen witty and cutting remarks intended to impress on her just how superior his intellect was, not to mention any number of riddles to baffle her. (There was still a part of his brain that didn't want him to die alone and childless, and that part had put a governor on his tongue.)

"What?" she stopped.

"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings. You aren't my type, and whatever this scheme is, if we work together—."

"Ah," she regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded. "Good. I'm _glad_ you're not smitten with me. Nothing could be better. This way you'll be able to focus more fully on the task at hand. I dislike misunderstandings just as much as you do. It's a pity, in a way, though, because _you_ are _my _type. Right down to the ground."

"I…am?"

"Oh, yes. Blue eyes, devastating cheekbones, glasses, quirky personality, flexible morality, an IQ which, if measured in Fahrenheit, would be hotter than Death Valley in July instead of body temperature—or room temperature, which is what I usually meet with in men. You even took the trouble to learn more about something I like, in order to discuss it intelligently with me. I'll have to resign myself to the fact that it can never be. Better that it should happen now before I get attached to you."

"I—," He wondered how he could retract what he had said. "it's nothing personal. Women have taken advantage of me too many times…" He explained, and she heard him out without a word until the end.

Looking down at her fingers as she toyed with the stem of her glass, Adele asked, "These girls and women—I'm guessing they were very popular, weren't they? Socially successful, very attractive, and highly sought after, while you were rather gawky and awkward?"

"That's the essence of it," he replied.

"You might have had greater success if you had looked around for the girl in a velociraptor t-shirt whose hair was always untidy and who hardly ever took her nose out of a book. That was me in high school, and I would very much have liked to have a friend like you. We could have talked game design or written a science fiction novel. Mind you, I know I'm about five years younger than you and I grew up on the West Coast, but I'm not that uncommon a type. You can find us anywhere. I'm sure there were always equivalent girls around. Then again, we're not _your _type."

The playful banter had left her voice. "I am rather more poised and polished these days, thanks to my father, who has a grand eye for style and what will suit someone, but scratch me and you'll find the nerd underneath. Let's talk about your security system now, shall we?"

* * *

TBC…. Mild Spoiler: In Arkham Origins, Edward Nashton is, or was, head of the GCPD's Cypercrimes division, and since he was so obviously a computer geek, well—He hasn't yet learned that negging is not the best way to get a girl. The highest recorded temperature in Death Valley is 134 degrees F, and it's not hard to imagine the Riddler's IQ is even higher. An IQ of 150 is considered genius level.

Anyhow—wow, last chapter got _**seven**_ reviews! Thank you to Bat-teen28, SwordStitcher, Tevinter, Golden Naginata, Miss Singing In The Rain, DarkWolf1121, and Guest!


	6. Too Late

Whatever she had to say was forestalled by the arrival of a particularly stolid thug in the Penguin's colors who was propelling before him a man in the incongruous garb of a white lab coat and a crude burlap mask over a pair of patched trousers and rag-wrapped feet.

"Dis is da guy you and youse Pop wanted ta see," rumbled the man-mountain. "He dint wanna come but I made him anyway. Without hurtin' him or nuttin, neither."

"Thank you, Rocco," Adele told him. "That was very well done, and I will tell my father so. You can leave him with me. Doctor Crane and I are old acquaintances."

"Okay," Rocco said, and let go of the Scarecrow, who sagged, rubbing the elbow Rocco had bent up behind his back.

"I'm surprised you didn't just gas him," the Riddler commented as Rocco left without a backward glance. The Scarecrow was one of the few people he didn't regard as a waste of valuable oxygen. Although intelligent enough, however, Dr. Crane's mental condition was dubious at best, and at worst…

"The normal reaction to sudden fear is the 'fight or flight' response," the former professor replied. "A specimen such as Rocco obviously would have a stronger fight response. I dislike being pummeled. However, I seem to know your voice, Miss—" He pulled off the mask, which was askew anyhow, and revealed an unexpectedly boyish face with fresh pink cheeks and clear cerulean eyes.

Drawing a pair of glasses from his lab coat pocket and unfolding them, he put them on. "Miss Chester. This is quite unexpected. You've changed your hair since I saw you last. As I recall, it was quite long."

"You two know each other?" Edward glanced at Adele. Scarecrow wasn't simply looking at her, he was _scrutinizing_ her.

"He was the teaching assistant in my Psychology 101 class," she replied. "The new style was Two-Face's idea. He and my father were involved in a messy territorial dispute. Mr. Dent kidnapped me, cut my hair off and sent it to Dad as a warning."

"Lost the toss, did you?" the Riddler asked.

"No. Actually, I won. Bad side up, and he would have sent Dad my entire head."

"That must have been terrible for you," the Scarecrow sympathized, which was unlike him. "Were you _very_ frightened?" _That_ was the Dr. Crane he knew.

"Horribly," she told him. "Dr. Crane—Jonathan—The second to last time we met—. Well, you're still using the frames, so I know you remember. Did I overstep a boundary? I never meant to cause offense."

"You? No." Was Crane turning pinker? "Q-quite the revere. At the time, I could foresee—Suffice it to say, you never offended me, and my career in academia imploded for reasons that had nothing to do with undue familiarity. Anyhow, at the risk of perpetrating a cliché, what is the meaning of this? I know neither why I am here nor why the Penguin would want to see me."

Then the penny dropped for Edward Nigma. Jonathan Crane was blue-eyed, wore glasses, and had a high IQ. Arguably, he did have flexible morality and while he, the Riddler, would not call Crane's personality merely 'quirky', the man also had notable cheekbones. They knew each other and whatever had happened back when she was still in college, neither of them had forgotten the other. Now they were reunited and…

_I finally meet an attractive, intriguing (in both senses of the word) woman who's __**turned on by brains**,__which would for __**once** __in my life make __me __a _**_sex god_**_, and what do I do? Do I ask her if she likes Italian food, because I know a great place on 19th__St? Do I ask her for a tour of the museum so I can see what she's done with it? No, first I tell her she's not my type and I follow that up by telling her that essentially I'd rather date the head cheerleader instead of the smart girl and __**ten seconds **__later__, ten friggin' seconds, __Fate in the form of Rocco delivers Jonathan Crane who__ wanted __to get 'unduly familiar' with her back in the day._

Ten seconds! He reached for the champagne and poured himself another glass.

_A riddle: What is always too late?_

_**Regret.**_

_And me._

"Ah," Adele replied. "I can certainly enlighten you, but first there is something else you should know. I was never forthcoming about either side of my family, and I know you were curious about exactly what my status was at the Pinkney. The truth is that my full name is actually Adele Elizabeth Chesterfield Cobblepot. The Penguin is my father, and we made a deal back when I was eighteen that if I took Museum Studies and Business Administration and kept at least a 3.0, then he would pay for college, and if I got a 4.0 or higher, then I would get to run the museum when I was ready. He more than kept his part of it."

"And you more than kept your part of it in return," Oswald Cobblepot had returned. He patted his daughter's arm on the way to reclaiming his seat and his glass. "Best investment I ever made. Glad to see you're all here. Did I miss anything?"

"Well, the Riddler shattered my heart irreparably, so I'm joining a convent in the morning and you can say goodbye to ever having grandchildren." Adele waved a hand airily. "So nothing, really."

"Can't leave you alone for one ruddy moment, can I?" he tsked. "You look like you'll get over it. Not so sure about him. He looks like someone dinged him a good one around the earhole. I understand you were one of her instructors once." He directed the last statement at Crane.

"As a mere teaching assistant, yes. She was one of only a handful of students who regarded the university as a place to learn rather than a four to eight yearlong bacchanal." the Scarecrow confirmed.

"I never did care for the sort of gathering where you have to keep a hand over your glass so as not to be roofied," Adele commented. "But you're too harsh on the majority of students. They were drunk on freedom as much as on alcohol, and most of them calmed down, sobered up, and got around to studying about halfway through their freshman years. Speaking of getting around to business, however—."

She reached for her evening bag, which opened up to reveal a top-of-the-line tablet. With a few touches, she called up a map of Old Gotham, the boundaries of the proposed Arkham City outlined in red. "The reason we are here is Professor Hugo Strange, and his plan to turn old Gotham into a prison, including the Pinkney Institute and the Lounge. I propose that we destroy him, halt his plans in their tracks and ruin whoever is backing him financially. By destroy, I don't mean kill. I mean to reduce that contemptuous, condescending son of a bitch—sorry, Dad—to the point where he will have to move to Africa and do volunteer work in an AIDS clinic in order to get any quality of life back."

"Ambitious…Have you ever killed anyone?" Crane asked, leaning and giving her an acute look.

"Yes, actually," she replied. "When Dent's men came to get me, I was at my sink doing dishes. Since I had a knife, I stabbed one of them in the abdomen. He bled out and died in the car. It was a terrible mess."

"You forget about the bloke you kicked in the temple at New Year's, three years ago," her father pointed out. "They took him off life-support six, seven months back."

"I'd forgotten about him," she frowned. "I never would have kicked him if he'd only stayed down and not made any more trouble. At any rate, I see this plan as having two fronts, the overt and the covert…"

She explained her plan to the other two supervillains as she had her father the night before. "Now I do a little hacking, mostly to check on high rollers' finances before Dad honors their signature in the casino or…elsewhere, so I know enough to know my skills are not equal to this task. Likewise, while I do know how to market and manage, I don't know how to cause mass panic. That is where you gentlemen come in. So, there it is. Are you interested, or not?"

TBC.

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A/N: As mentioned back in the first chapter, imagine Cillian Murphy as he was in Batman Begins as Dr. Crane/Scarecrow. Evil geniuses have never been cuter. Six reviews last chapter, yay! Thank you, Bat-teen28, Swordstitcher, Darkwolf1121, AutumnKrystal, Golden Naginata, and Tevinter Of Our Discontent!


	7. Irrational Numbers

"You posit that the entire purpose of Arkham City is to destroy the Batman?" Jonathan Crane pushed his glasses up his nose and affixed Adele with an azure stare.

"Not the only purpose, but yes, the ultimate purpose." she replied, looping a finger into the pendant on the long diamond sautoir she wore at her neck, and twirling it around. With a gardenia in her hair, she would be the image of the girl in the art deco medallions on the Lounge's walls.

"Do you not consider that rather extreme for the purposes of ridding Gotham of one man?" he queried.

"No," she shook her head, making her earrings dance. "Consider all the effort that has gone into trying to kill him over nearly fifteen years, and the longest he's ever been gone is about three months. The problem is that everyone thinks of him as being simply a man."

"Hey," Edward interrupted. "if that's a riddle, it's my property. What is he, then, if not just a man?"

Adele glanced his way, picked up her glass, and frowned at its empty state. "Gotham… has never been a normal place. Not even when it was first founded. The crime rate here is five times the national average, mental illness is at about the same level, and then you have to consider that it's been that way ever since the start. One of the more rational explanations I've come across is that an eldritch horror from beyond space and time is squatting under it, exuding toxins into the psychic ecosphere."

Her father chuckled, topping up his glass, then filling hers. "Sounds like that old 'ancient Indian burial ground' business hashed up and warmed over."

"What precisely is the nature of the psychic ecosphere?" Crane wondered.

"Unimportant. I don't believe in Lovecraftian Elder Gods, even if there is an 'Arkham' connection, but…Mr. Nigma, you'd know this if anyone would. Is there a word for the moments of icy clarity you feel when you realize exactly how weird existence really is?"

"There are medications that will prevent such moments," Crane offered helpfully. "Would you like some?"

"Thank you, but no." she smiled at him. "I would rather have them and be myself than stay warm and fuzzy."

"Ummm….Beyond simply 'Sobriety', nothing immediately springs to mind," he replied. "Please—call me Edward."

"Thank you-Edward. I never used to have those moments until I moved to Gotham City, where somehow dressing up as a bat or a clown on a regular basis is something like normal. What would happen if somehow, Pi equaled three, instead of 3.14159, etc? An irrational number made rational, and reality reformed around it."

"Wouldn't work," Eddie replied. "Everything numerical would have to be…pulled off….kilter...That is, recalculated to compensate for it. There'd hardly be a whole number left. Hmmm," he trailed off. It was an odd concept, but as a metaphor went, well, when he considered his own life, and how it had changed since Batman entered it-it was not bad. Not convincing, but not bad.

"I'm not saying that Batman is Pi, unless events in the present can affect the past. I don't_ think_ that's possible outside of _Doctor Who_, but I am willing to entertain the idea if someone wants to argue it." Adele looked from one to another.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want those medications?" Crane asked. "They have almost no side effects."

"Again, no thank you. Yes, I am making light of it, and having fun as well, but I am quite serious at heart. Strange will build his prison, fill it, set up his death trap, spring it, and fail. I can see I haven't convinced anybody..." she glanced from face to face around the table, her own face flushing. " I think we need another bottle of champagne."

She signaled to a server, who hurried over with another magnum. In the interruption this afforded, the Riddler leaned over to the Penguin and asked, _sotto voce_, "I don't think I caught what your part is in all of this."

"I provide the funding and advice when asked for it," the older man told him. "You can't tell me you haven't heard madder. You can't even tell me you haven't spouted madder yourself, so do me the courtesy of hearing her out."

Once everyone had refills, Adele began again, "Let me try this from another angle. We all of us know how very easily people can die or be permanently injured—paralyzed, brain damaged, maimed or worse. Correct?"

"Yes," Crane was willing to admit this. "On occasion a test subject who seems perfectly healthy turns out to have a congenital heart defect they aren't even aware of. It's quite exasperating. '

"After a Fight Club night there's almost always some bloke who took a blow to the head and walks out under his own steam just fine only to turn up dead a day later. 'Subdural hematoma', that's what they call it. Not to mention all the other ways," Oswald Cobblepot mused. "Break a thigh bone and that big leg artery almost always gets pierced. Then bob's your uncle, they're dead of internal bleeding."

"Granted," the Riddler waved away.

"Yet, for all of that, Batman, who for well over a decade has been breaking bones, busting heads and leaving people hanging upside down or unconscious outdoors in all sorts of weather, and he has never killed anyone. Not once. Not even by accident.

"No one has had an aneurism from blood rushing to their head, no one falls the wrong way off a roof, no one gets the circulation cut off and loses a limb as a result. No subdural hematomas, no brain damage, no hits to the chest that stop the heart. If anyone ever died as a result of what he did, or if they were permanently injured—the world would know it. The only thing people love more than a hero is watching a hero fall.

"The deck is stacked in Batman's favor, and I don't think he even knows it. I'm willing to accept that he's trained to the limits of human ability. I am _not _willing to accept that he's that lucky. Nor should any of you be."

"Why is that?" Edward asked.

"That's why he keeps winning and people like us keep losing," she replied simply. "Whoever or whatever Pi is, it's on his side."

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A/N: Sorry this update took so long and that it's so short, but I got laryngitis last week and haven't got much energy or much voice even now. Thanks to Bat-Teen28, Golden Naginata and Tevinter for their reviews.


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